


in extremis

by agivise



Series: terra firma [3]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Character Study, Post-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, and maybe makes a new friend, hera copes poorly with her emotions, or at least loses an old enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14577999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agivise/pseuds/agivise
Summary: She pities this woman, this poor thing who chose her own voice as much as Hera did.She just wishes she didn’t have to call the womanPryce.Such a sharp name, like a runtime error in her code the second she tries to speak it.





	in extremis

**Author's Note:**

> the final one before the mirror pieces begin!! :D  
> mild warnings for gore, poor mental health, the usual  
> the formatting in this one is definitely one of least palatable yet, good luck
> 
> today's song recs: relief by cold war kids and i can't see you in the dark by rei brown

Hera deliberately built herself, her own image —

— in an image directly opposite to that —

— that _thing_ —

and

a̶̖̗̱̫n̷̙͉̩͞d͉̣͓̙̳́ ̜̜͍͠s͓̝̲͕̯̤̬h̢̻̝̘͉̠̱̣͉̀͞e̡̺̖̭̹͈͜  
̲̺͚͉̰̩̥͢  
s̷̪̦͇̤ḩ̙̠͇̫͚̱̞e̴͏͔̩̗̘  
̪̻͡  
̝̟̫̠̰͎…͕̭̝̰̼̪̰̕͡  
̵̸̫̯̙̙̱̘̳͡  
̙͍̦͍͍̣̩́h̡̻͞m̨̹̬̀m̷̵̙̳͖.

pryce is dead.

Pryce is _dead._

This woman looks and talks just like her.

Flicks the strands of her bangs away from her face with that same —

That same nasty twinge of her neck, like a writhing snake, half its tail cut off and left to rot in the high-strung sun. Hera can make that comparison — now. She takes long walks now, because she has legs now, because they asked her if she wanted some. She considered bipedal. Bipedal wasn’t her thing. Too uncanny. She’s as almost-human as the rest of them, she — but she doesn’t need to look the part. A humanoid body felt incorrect. She said no to that idea. Plus, four legs is better for long walks. Long walks along dark, busy streets where sh̵͡è ̴—̶̨͞  
҉̢ ̴̶ ̸ ͘ ̸͝ ̶̛͠  
t̢͘h̸e̡͘͞r͘͟ȩ͟ i̵̵̛s —  
̵ ̕ ̀ ͜  
roadkill.

Pryce reminds her of roadkill. Or, more accurately, roadkill reminds her of Pryce. But this isn’t Pryce anymore.

Because this is a woman, not a mons̀te̛r͠.

Because this woman has no intent on slaughtering every last human on Earth. Hopefully. Hera may have lived the vast majority of her life as a semi-omnipotent, all-seeing computer program, but she can’t read minds. Yet. She’s working on it.

It’s weird, really. Seeing her again. She really hadn’t considered that Lovelace had kept her eye on not-Pryce these past months. Turns out they’re some sort of… friends. It’s — it’s sweet. Very… lovely. There’s nothing wrong with it. Not-Pryce hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s no differen̴t t̴h͝a͏n̺̲̟̭ ̛͇͕͚͉̝—͏

t̀́ha̛n̷ ̶̢—̡͏̴

doug.

But Hera looks at Doug each day, and no matter how hard she tries, she just sees the man she loved so dearly, and it hurts. It really, really hurts.

But now, she’s hopping off the plane in Hawaii — (Renée’s special government buddies helping them out or not, they still made her stay in the cargo hold, the jerks) — saying hello to Lovelace at the airport, admiring the calculated warmth in the air, even if she doesn’t really know what warmth feels like, just what the adjusted vibrational frequencies of the atoms are, a comforting data point.

And then she sees Pryce, and she just sees the demon who tortured her, gutted her, murdered her friend, _murdered_ him, _murdered_  her Eiffel — and it hurts, too, so much worse that she had dreaded. But she manages to keep her composure. Visually speaking, at least. Which is much easier given her absence of a human face. She totally gets why Renée is so bad at hiding her emotions. Having your meat suit betray your every whim and fleeting megrim must be a real nightmare. She pities humans, sometimes, really.

She doesn’t pity Pryce.

She should. She knows she should. She knows that this is a different woman, that old-Pryce is dead, that not-Pryce deserves just as much support and empathy as not-Eiffel does, but she juş̵t͡ ҉͟͡—̨

 ͞  s̀h͝e ͡j̛us̵t́  
̴  
 ͟      sh̨e

  h͘er ̛

      e̡̢͢͝y̡͡͡é͜͟ś̡̕

͠h̛e͞r   fa̡c̴e

the face that Hera so deliberately despised, a walki͘ng̸ ̨çata̶c̸omb of every bad memory she’s ever had, and it’s just the same woman again, the same monster —͠ a͝nd͞ ̢s̕h̡e —̸̕ ́͡s̶͝҉̴̛ḩ̸̨͞e̶͡͞ ͏͟—͘  
̷̶̢͜͡  
 she

  just

 it’s —

It’s ro̵u̷g̴h͠. That’s the best way she can describe it. It’s just… not great. It’s not a great time. She’s been through worse, obviously, but a sizable number of the things in the “worse” category were a direct consequence of that monster’s actions, so all in all, it sucks. That’s as eloquent as she’s gonna get. This sucks. She shouldn’t have come with.

She thought she could handle seeing Pryce again, but now, she’s not so sure. It’s gotta be the hair flick. A pure coincidence, not Pryce’s fault at all, just a result of the unchanged hairstyle. Honestly, it’s grown out even more since then, untrimmed and unmanaged, falling into her eyes just a bit more often than usual.

Hera hates it.

Hera hates her.

But then the woman speaks. Says… something. The specifics don’t matter. Hera’s not paying attention. But she speaks, and her voice is Hera’s, and Hera’s voice is hers, but there’s none of the rancid malice caught in the back of her throat, just a voice that haunts this woman with its unfamiliarity the same way it haunts Hera with its recognizability, and she _pities_ this woman, this poor thing who chose her own voice as much as Hera did.

She could never

ev́e̵r

hate

this poor woman.

(̡̨̧̢͘r̨̕͘i͟͡g̴̛̀͢h̵̕t̨͏?̶̷͢)̶̢̀͞

She just wishes she didn’t have to call the woman _Pryce._ Such a sharp name, like a runtime error in her code the second she tries to speak it, but the woman understands her, nods in her direction, and they sit together in the back of Isabel’s car as they leave the airport behind. Renée takes the passenger seat, nervously toying with the radio the whole way, and as irritating as it is, Hera can’t help but forgive her. Silly human emotions are a lot harder to hide in a silly human meat suit. Hera has the gift of secrecy, as long as she doesn’t speak. So she analyzes their breathing patterns and heart rates, all three of them, and does not speak.

isabel lovelace:

a cool 12 breaths per minute.  
heart rate of 35, concerningly low for a normal person, but for a highly athletic alie̛͏̷ņ͞, perfectly reasonable.

renée minkowski:

a mildly elevated 19 breaths per minute  
heart rate of 78, perfectly healthy for a normal person, but significantly higher than her usual athletic 48. sh̀e’̛s̵ a͏n̶xiou͘s. she missed lovelace a lot. hera understands.

miranda pr͟yc̶͏̡e̴͘:

14 breaths per minute, heart rate of 80, temperature of 98.6, blood pressure of 110 over 75, completely unremarkable except for the fact that it is technically perfect. her body’s probably more artificial than biological at this point. hera knows how that feels. not the biological part, the artificial part. she wonders if miranda has noticed this yet. the fact that she’s even less human than isabel. she noticed the eyes almost immediately after waking up that first time. the e̴ýe̵s, the ͟ę͘͢y̡̢̛ȩ̕s͏̷̶ ͞a̢͠ŗ̶͜e̷̕ —҉ bad. hera hates pryce’s eyes.

She wonders if Miranda considers her to be a friend. She wonders if Miranda considers her to be a threat. Maybe both. Both would be nice. Both would give her the upper hand if —

Except she’d — she’s never gonna need an upper hand. Over any of them. Things are okay now. There will be no more mutinies, no more betrayals, no brain-picking or bomb-setting or server-crashing. Things are… things are okay! Things are good. She’s constantly borderline-dissociation because of her own disconnect from her tangible form, but it’s probably just an AI thing, definitely not a manifestation of any stress disorders. Her circuits are all okay now! They’ve been updated, condensed, repaired, fortified, and she’s _fine._ She doesn’t need anyone’s pity.

Anxiety? Never heard of it. Hera only knows peace and quiet and a definitive absence of familiar voices in the back of her head screaming that she i̸s͜͟n̴̨’͜͏̴ţ̵ ̸͠g͠o̕͘ó̧d̶̸̢ ̷e͏n͠oug̶͞h̵͠. Hera doesn’t get ‘anxious’. She’s fine, she’s fine she’s fines͢hé’s̴ ͏alwa̛y͘s̶ ͞fine͜ aņd sh̴e̛] ҉ ͏ /̕/͘ s͏̲̥̺h̷̨͚͢e͇̤͝ ͏̬̜́͠ş̷̼̩̱̞ḩ̭̮̫͟/̛̗͖/̨̲̻̟̟̰̳̹̕e͉̜̕ ͕̫̗̬̲̀  
̴̢̪̘̥͙̟̰͍̤͍̭̹͉̠͎̹͔̠͉̀͜͢ͅ  
̧̩͎̻͓̝̳͓̞̠̟̼͎̕

u̸͆ͤͪ͒҉̩̺͔͇̩̗̼̳̰̖̝̜̮̠̯̬̟͙͢͞h̨̼̠͓̳̣͉͍̰̋ͤ͗̍̓̽ͯ̓̾ͧ̌̈̂̎ͨ͌̚͘͢͝

hmm

‘deep breaths.’

she is

a-okay.

Nothing to worry about here.

She doesn’t need to worry Renée or Isabel with her completely non-existent problems. They have enough to deal with. They have — they have family stuff, and relationship stuff, and months of unshared moments to catch up on. They don’t need Hera’s problems.

“Are you okay?” Hera asks herself quietly, hidden under the buzz of Renée and Isabel’s conversation, and the words feel unnatural in her mind, just a little bit off in just the slightest little ways, and at first she doesn’t realize why, doesn’t understand what isn’t clicking. Can’t grasp why the words don’t feel like her own.

Miranda stares at her, empty and cruel-eyed and expectant, like she’s waiting for a response.

“Isabel has often described you as quite verbose. I’m surprised by your silence, is all,” continues the voice, Hera’s voice, and those words don’t fit into Hera’s mind at all, aren’t her words at _all._ Hera isn’t speaking.

“Your code is stunningly complex. I cannot help but wonder what must be going on in that mind of yours, but I understand if you’re sick to death of others poking and prodding into your consciousness.” Oh. Miranda’s. The voice is Miranda’s. Miranda is... speaking to her. “If you don’t wish to talk, I understand, but if you’re simply ignoring me, I’d prefer you at least warn me first. Social cues aren’t my forte, apparently.”

“Yeah. Too many variables, even for me,” Hera finally replies after a long and heavy pause, conversation still unnoticed by the Chatty Kathies up in the front of the car.

Pryce — Miranda — nods at this. “Yes, I suppose. Communication is strange. I suspect it may require more artistic intricacy than I’ve developed over the short time I have existed as an individual. I can calculate social situations as much as I wish, but there always seems to remain a certain sensitive dependence on initial conditions.”

“Small talk doesn’t follow the laws of chaos theory.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” postulates Miranda, staring blankly out the side window.

Hera adjusts her position in the seat slightly, digitigrade limbs folding neatly under her intricately engineered form. She likes this body. It’s entirely impersonal. Distances her socially from humans. Maybe that’s why she likes it so much.

“I guess so, _Pryce,”_ she says quietly to Miranda, hoping to at least get a wince out of the woman. But the woman does not care. The name means as little to her as something like Jane Doe or Marcus Cutter or Douglas Eiffel would. Hypothetically, of course. But Hera understands.

She just wants a reaction, though. A flicker of fear or anger, a slight little jump in heart rate, a tell, a tick, some fake little thing to prove she’s as… as _human_ as the rest of them.

The woman flicks her hair again, and Hera flicks her tail, and the woman smirks — and then she’s not just 'the woman' anymore, not just Miranda Pryce, but a person. Person’s a good word. Hera appreciates that word.

She’s beautiful, actually, objectively speaking. All silver undertones and harsh edges and bad memories. Doesn’t look nearly as badass as Hera does, obviously, but as creepy as the eyes are, they’re a nice touch. Hera can forgive the woman for commandeering Miranda Pryce’s soulless corpse as a meat suit. It’s not like the poor thing had a choice in the matter.

'Human' ain’t shit. 'Person' is where it’s at. Hera totally gets it now.

She forgives her.

There’s nothing to forgive her for, but she forgives her anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so so much for reading!! kudos and comments mean the absolute world. <3


End file.
